often she fails to reside within the land of the living
but instead, among the realm of the dead
they speak to her in silence, swirling, singing
haunting the hollows of her head

phantoms of long forgotten memories obscure the path
between the sliver of the liver and the left
they mark purple knuckles and unheard cries
caught in the tear-stained glass

so she stares through sodden eyes,
a phantom in her own right,
at an image of a life that passes her by
trapped behind the glass of her own demise